WeissKreuz Child's Play 2 Guilt And Redemption
by LoveyouHateyou
Summary: Follows on from 'Child's Play'. Schuldig has a deep discourse about certain matters with Yohji, who has issues with Aya, who gets grilled by Omi and Ken. Crawford puts in a meddling appearance, and presto, we have one big mess... AMENDED


**Guilt And Redemption**

**xxx**

Follows on from 'Child's Play'. Schuldig has a deep discourse about certain matters with Yohji, who has issues with Aya, who gets grilled by Omi and Ken. Crawford puts in something like a menacing appearance, and presto, we have one big mess...

**xxx**

**Comtess, Lady Orient, Rosemarykiss, **this one is for you – I hope you like it. Any suggestions from your end welcome – I love your thoughtful, intelligent reviews.

Cheers  
LH

**xxx**

**Disclaimer:** This story is not for profit, all rights with their current owners.  
**Warnings:** Don't think there are any spoilers in this one; references to sex between men and a lot of foul language (they never learn, those lads).  
**Rating: M** for male/male affection and references to sex.  
**Pairs** (I would not call them couples): Schuldig/Yohji (sizzle, smoulder, snap) Aya/Yohji (destiny interrupted... again, and again, and... well, it's Aya after all), Crawford/Schuldig (smoke and fire).

**xxx**

**It did need some more proofing - apologies, and I hope you will enjoy it more now. **

**xxx**

With a wheeze and a gasp, Schuldig burst from a nightmare.

His body as taut as a string, he lay motionless, muscles frozen, instinct beyond reasonable thinking binding him. He kept his eyes firmly shut and waited... how often had he waited thus, for something... anything to happen? No point trying to remember... the darkness around him held nothing beyond the leaden weight on his chest that squeezed the living breath out of him.

He had learned to empty his mind of anticipation, to dissolve the convulsions of panic and nausea, and just bear and live through whatever would lunge at him from the blackness. So he did not stir, the faintest tremor running through his stiff limbs while he tried to suck some air into his lungs.

Splinters of pain pierced his brain, like showers of arrowheads, or shooting stars on a black midsummer sky. He forced himself to stay motionless, hoping as always that perhaps they would subside enough for him to face the outside world. Sometimes Brad would simply stroke them away, with the touch of cool, heavy hands to his temples... ah, yes, he was not at their safehouse but at his own place. He was alone.

The darkness around him remained still.

But the weight – he tried to wriggle his toes experimentally. They moved, good; he was alive and possession of his limbs. And nothing was happening; nothing crawled from the blackness to pounce at him... perhaps he could open his eyes, just a little, to peer through his lashes. Dazed and disorientated, he tried to gather himself enough to make sense of his surroundings that were mushed into a blurry dusk. Pushing one elbow into the mattress, he made to turn onto his side, only to find he was pinned down by something more substantial than the aftershocks of a black dream. Something warm and firm.

And then a scent struck his nostrils that made him giddy again: beyond the reek of booze and pot and sweat-stale clothes, he smelled sandalwood and hot caramel.

Balinese.  
Yohji.

Schuldig stilled once more, slowly taking stock of the sensations that were running through his body... soaking up the warmth of the weight that made the sluggish mattress sag deeper than under his own light form. Sinking into this nest made him mould against the body by his side. He sucked his lower lip between his teeth and refused to open his eyes more, lest it all should vanish like some vision. Perhaps someone else's mind was pouring fake impressions into him, illusions that were liable to melt away in a haze of mocking colours and sounds... but Abyssinian would not feel like this, now would he? Abyssinian was filled with other, colder things...

Nervously, Schuldig shifted a little. The illusion lay next to him, heavy and solid, he could feel long limbs sprawled against his gangly body, and the weight that squashed him was an arm, clamped almost possessively across his chest.

"Stay still," came a command, muffled by the pillow and curt, but not unkind. "Disturbin' my beauty sleep, dumbhead."

Classic Balinese, Schuldig mused fuzzily, definitely real.

**xxx**

When at last a very definite bodily need drove Yohji into the cramped bathroom, Schuldig – in nothing but a pair of blue boxers – crawled out of bed as well to try and make coffee. He created a mess of instant granules, dissolving in puddles of water and spilled milk around the kettle he kept on a shelf by the bathroom door, but he had managed to produce two mugs of the hot stuff.

Without a word, they settled for a morning smoke, Schuldig perching astride the windowsill, Yohji on the edge of the bed. Schuldig had dragged on a pair of shape-hugging, washed-out blue jeans and not bothered to button the fly all the way up. Yohji looked slightly rumpled in the clothes he had slept in, his hair dishevelled, eyes puffy without his sunshades, which he had lost at the club where Schuldig had picked him up.

Through the open window blasted the droning of the morning traffic; somewhere in the building some radio J-pop was blaring loud enough to entertain the entire street, and the echo of a man and a woman yelling at one another vibrated down the hallway. Outside, the air was still cool from the night's rain but warming up quickly. Just above the tarmac, it appeared thin and shifting, simmering with vapour as the morning sun began to soak up puddles. Even the sluggish draft from the window was humid, and Schuldig's room felt muggy and sticky with exhaust fumes drifting in from the road.

Yohji propped his elbows on his knees and watched the coffe swirling in the mug cradled between his hands. "Last night... what did you do... with me?" He sounded tense, but composed, factual, ready to deal with whatever answer he would get.

Schuldig tossed back his unkempt hair and laughed. "Everything."

Yohji shifted uneasily, as if to check whether he was sore in THAT place. Schuldig gave him a bug-eyed glare, rolled his eyes and snorted with a mock-leer. "I could have."

Yohji exhaled sharply, relieved in spite of himself. "Asshole."

They looked at one another for a moment, and Schuldig's grimace slipped, giving way for a moment to something closely resembling a half-smile. Thin, pink lips, dancing freckles, luminous blue eyes, a narrow, longnosed pale face framed by this impossibly flame-coloured hair... Schuldig dangled his rather skinny, denim-encased leg, the sole of his bare white foot brushing the tatty brown lino floor. "Like what you see?"

Yohji jarred from his odd reverie and bit back a reply. He did not feel like lying right now, and the truth... well, it would not do to give Schuldig any more ideas.

"Maybe I should have," Schuldig said pensively, turning away to look out onto the glistening street.

"What?"

"Done something."

Yohji gulped down a mouthful of coffee and smoke and nearly choked on it, before he managed to come up with a rather lame, "If this is is one of your stupid mindgames-"

"Yeah, yeah, blah, blah." Schuldig shrugged. "It always boils down to this, it's boring. Don't you know your own head?" He paused, only to add, "Dumb as it is."

"Hey!"

Schuldig dismissively waved his cigarette-equipped hand. "What? Can't take it?"

"You!" Yohji thrust his arm forward, sloshing coffee over his hand. He cursed quietly as he withdrew his arm and tried to wipe the dripping hand with his other hand.

Schuldig laughed, a bright, pleased sound, cocked his head and lanced a glance over his shoulder at Yohji. "See? Well, anyway, where were we... ah, the fact that you were about to become the subject of a gang bang, and my good colleague Far and my modest little self hauled you outta there – no need to thank me, of course, I don't do selfless anyway."

"Geez, coulda fooled me," Yohji remarked dryly, still shaking droplets of coffee from his fingers.

"Man, Bali, you used to have a sense of humour."

"How would you know?" Yohji groused.

"I just do." Schuldig paused, taking a sip and a drag. "Feeling homeless right now?"

Yohji rubbed his eyes. "I'll find someplace to stay."

For a heartbeat, they were quiet, then Schuldig shrugged. "There's a spare key on the shelf by the kettle. You can give it back to me whenever."

Yohji buried his face in one hand. After a while, he shook his head. His voice was muffled by his fingers, his tone flat. "I don't know what I'm doing here."

Schuldig pushed out his lower lip. "Getting to know your enemy? Wait, there's this thing Far says... ah, this is it: love thy enemy like thyself... or something like that."

Yohji groaned softly.

"You gotta sleep off that hangover you're having," Schuldig snapped, suddenly cranky and on the brink of losing his ever-fragile patience. "I'm not holding you captive, you know?"

"Do you love yourself?" Yohji said listlessly.

He was surprised by the silence that followed, and when he lifted his head, he met Schuldig's pale eyes that sized him up thoughtfully. "Don't know," Schuldig said, back to a sober tone. "Because I got no idea who exactly my self is."

Yohji shot him an irritated glare. "Quit shitting me. My head's about to explode."

"Implode," Schuldig corrected snidely, "'S nothing in it. So I don't expect you to get it."

"I'm blond, not daft."

"I wonder."

"Ass."

"Pansy."

"Oi!"

Schuldig cracked a grin. "Okay, perhaps technically not quite. You're dyed after all, so join the club."

Schuldig was good at sidelining, Yohji noted, somewhere between amused, troubled and cross. "That was NOT the issue at hand." A brief pause, then, "Which club, anyway? And how would you know I'm dyed?"

Schuldig gave another half-smirk.

"So?" Yohji prodded, tetchily.

"What?"

Exasperated, Yohji raked his fingers through his shaggy hair in an unconscious attempt to smooth it out. "Man, you must be driving Crawford round the bend."

"If you must know, your roots show. Same club as that knife-hugging fool who threw you out on the streets last night. And I don't."

"Ah? And what's that on your hide, huh? Fallen down the stairs again? How many flights was it this time? Sliced yourself with the kitchen knife? Dropped your face on Crawly's boot?"

"Do not call him names! And don't rap on about something you got no fuckin' clue about. "

"Perhaps-" Yohji snapped his mouth shut, got up and crossed the room to set the mug onto the shelf. Perhaps he did have an idea. Aya could be rough sometimes, and perhaps Schuldig knew. Yohji shuddered. "Whatever. What are you after, Schwarz?"

Schuldig swung both legs inside and hopped off the windowsill. "Hmmm, lemme see – you sucking my nipples? Okay, maybe not, don't freak out there, right? I could always lick yours."

Yohji dipped his head and let his forehead thud against the shelf. "Dear Lord, if you're around and can spare a sec to listen to Kudoh the old fag, please have mercy and deliver said fag from carrotheaded, mindfucking evil..."

Schuldig grinned broadly. "Lecherous. You forgot that. Besides, he's not gonna do it."

Yohji sagged against the wall and pressed his hands to his throbbing temples. "Huh?"

"God's not gonna have time, what with Far singing his ears deaf. He's always chanting; making sure he's first in line for having his prayers answered. And sometimes, he's going out to carve himself a little wishbone..."

Yohji just made it to the toilet before being violently sick.

**xxx**

At the Koneko, the blinds were down against the shiny, glittering, steam-saturated morning. Inside, the gloomy dusk suited the prevailing mood. Aya was eating his breakfast rice and pickles at the kitchen table; Omi sat opposite him and kept turning a bowl with tepid miso between his small, thin hands while watching him.

Ken was bustling about the shop; the radio was playing some pop music interspersed with sports news, and he was humming along. He had walked out of the kitchen as soon as Aya came down the stairs, and not even looked at him when they passed one another in the hall. It had been Aya who swerved so that they did not run into each other, and Ken who ploughed past in a rigid line...

Omi sighed and set down his bowl. "Aya-kun."

Aya's chopsticks stopped clicking. He paused, set them down neatly behind his rice bowl, in a sure, precise double line parallel to the edge of the table, and looked up to meet Omi's blue gaze. "Hai."

"Sometimes things can go wrong."

Aya remained silent, but he dropped his gaze, carefully pushed back the half-empty bowl, and placed his hands, one atop the other in a bony cross, on the scratched table.

"We understand," Omi said, in a carefully neutral tone.

We. The chibi and Ken. They had been out to a concert the night before, and when they returned and tumbled into the Koneko during the small hours, they had found Aya sitting in the kitchen, the katana on the table in front of him, along with a mug of cooling tea. Of course they had asked for Yohji, and Aya told them in dry words what had happened.

At first, they had not believed him. And when it finally sunk in, Ken had flown into a rage, bellowing his anger and disdain – accusing Aya of betraying the team, for no one should be let down like this, personal or otherwise. It had taken Omi's cool head, a small tussle and a good deal of sharp talking to keep him from going after Aya, who simply unsheathed his katana and waited.

In the end, Ken had torn free of Omi's hold and roared off on his motorbike, to cruise the city 'til dawn. Omi had spent the night in front of the computer to cover up his concern, and tried to distract himself by checking and cross-referencing their accounts with a pile of old mission files. Aya had gone to sit in the dark shop, amid the graveyard smells of damp soil and cut flowers until Omi called him into the kitchen for breakfast...

"I believe I have an idea what moved you," Omi continued, his voice flat but not hostile.

Aya linked his hands to preclude any trembling. His knuckles whitened with the effort. They still liked Yohji enough to take his side, as always... and perhaps there were darker reasons to shield him like that. Yohji could be surprisingly shifty. He had gone with Schuldig, and Aya was prepared to wage a substantial bet that this had not been their first encounter. Yet Omi still appeared to trust the blond explicitly...

"But I have a job to do," Omi went on calmly. "And for this, I need a complete team."

The joints of Aya's short, hard fingers began to crack, one after another, slowly and methodically as he clenched his hands harder.

"I have a mission request from Manx," Omi said evenly..

Aya bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Please, Aya-kun." Omi's tone remained firm, yet his gaze softened the slightest bit. "Whatever it is between you two, put it right."

For a moment, Aya seemed to struggle, and then his face fell. His sharp features grey and flooded with suffering, he closed his eyes and shook his head. "I can't." A rough whisper.

Omi pushed back his chair and went to the sink to rinse his bowl. He placed it neatly onto the drying rack, wiped his chopsticks, and took one of the mugs of coffee Ken had made earlier and left on the counter. "I cannot refuse the assignment without a good reason," he said over his shoulder. "And I don't see why I should. We need the money, and Ken and my earnings go down if yours do."

Aya remained still. Omi sighed heavily. "Ken and I will cover your shifts. You have forty-eight hours before the mission is due. Please. Put it right." He nodded politely and left, the door thudding shut behind him.

Aya listened to his swift, light footfall fading in the hallway to the shop. Only when he heard the door to the shop close as well, and nothing but the distant hum of the morning rush hour filled the house, did he bury his face in his hands.

During the last few hours, they had not even been sure whether Yohji was still alive – until Omi, ever alert, heard the phone in the kitchen and rushed to pick up the call.

From Yohji. To let them know he was fine.  
And to tell the chibi that he would come to pick up his travelling bag and a few clothes later.

Omi had not asked any questions. Aya thought that perhaps, he had been too upset; sometimes the chibi took quite a while to calm down – Omi did not cry easily, but his face had been twisted and he kept snivelling for some time after that. Ken was clearly relieved even though the scowl on his face could have turned milk sour, and he gave Aya the silent treatment while trying to comfort Omi.

Yet shortly after that, the chibi received another call, this time to his cellphone while he was cooking rice in the kitchen, and after that he suddenly changed back into the cool, collected youth who was used to order them all around – efficient, clear-headed, apt at acting out this sweet facade of his, or dropping it at will. His mission persona, averse to wasting time or caving in to whims in the face of necessity, sly, sharp, and utterly bullheaded.

He had ordered Aya to put things right.  
And Aya's bruised mind had gone blank as he wondered how on earth he should do this.

**xxx**

From the light that flowed through the surprisingly clean window, Yohji judged it to be early afternoon when he woke from another round of hangover-induced sleep. For a few moments, he lay still, tangled in blankets and sheets that he had bunched against his chest, and listened to the sounds of the city that pulsed around the apartment block, and to the beat of the building around him. A beehive, with cells and chambers, and he was cocooned in one of them, light shining in, walls fragile and transparent, protective and open all the same...

He sat up. Rubbish, it crossed his mind as he let his bleary gaze stray across the apartment. The place was starkly tidy, except for the shelf with the kettle and mugs – he remembered Schuldig making a mess with the coffee. Everything else was tatty but painstakingly clean, as if the owner of this place strained to keep it this way.

His head was swimming, and he was hankering for a nicotine fix, painkillers and caffeine. Food wouldn't be bad, he mused droopily, hoisting himself up. He was still dressed and felt uncomfortable in his scruffy clothes; they smelled used, and he thought of having a shower. Even though he would have to slip back into his grubby outfit because it was unlikely that any of Schuldig's stuff would fit him – the firehead was tall but not nearly as filled-out as Yohji. All skin 'n bones, Yohji thought, at least that was how his body felt, almost naked and hot as they lay pressed together on the narrow cot.

Bony, taut, willing. Copper mane splayed wildly around his sharp face, long bright lashes quivering against pale skin shimmering with golden freckles, lips slightly parted and drooling a little against Yohji's neck. He had looked oddly trusting in repose, until some nightmare began to wrack him and Yohji shook him half-awake. And then he had lain very still, with Yohji's arm across his chest to hold him down, and Yohji could feel his heart hammer beneath his own pulse…

With a sweat-sheening effort, Yohji reined his wayward thoughts back in. Shower was good, better not think any further... shower, shower, shower... He padded across the room and lifted his hand to push open the door to the tiny bathroom when he heard someone shuffling about inside, and the soft rushing of water from a shower at low pressure.

He needed a pee. And of course that was the only reason why he slid the door open by a tiny crack and held his breath.

Schuldig stood stark naked under a thready stream of water. His hair hung in a dark, soaked trail down his scrawny back, his wild bangs slicked back from his narrow face. He was busy soaping himself down, and Yohji gaped – at wiry limbs with white, scarred skin, beaded with droplets and shimmering with rivulets of water; rosy nipples, a trickle of copper hair from his navel downwards to the nicely shaped, soft flesh that rested against a nest of sparse reddish curls, long thighs and sleek legs. He was pale and smooth everywhere apart from down there, and he moved with the ease of someone who thought himself unobserved.

Free of allure and innuendo.  
Innocence regained.

Reluctantly, Yohji leaned his forehead against the doorjamb and kept watching, strangely attracted – he felt no stirring in his loins, no wish to be closer or touch. Yet he watched and felt oddly put out, free of longing, almost... content. It surprised him. And never one to waste what life had to offer, he welcomed it like a peculiar kind of respite.

Schuldig scrubbed himself thoroughly with a bar of cheap-smelling soap and a hard brush, his almost translucent skin reddening furiously under the rough treatment. Yohji noted that he could count Schuldig's ribs and the knuckles of his spine, but that the redhead also possessed what looked like a thin layer of puppy fat on his belly, like someone who was not done growing yet. He watched him grab a razor from the shelf by the steamed-up mirror and slide the blade over his chest, swiftly scraping off the few reddish hairs that had straggled from his smooth skin. Then he leaned out from the shower tray, grasped the edge of the sink with one hand and shaved his face while critically eyeing his work in the looking glass.

Yohji idly mused that, perhaps, he was getting as close as possible to seeing the real Schuldig. Schuldig the boy, before Rosenkreuz and headaches and spite consumed him. To spit him out as Mastermind, maimed and nasty, a leech who gorged himself on other people's minds and sought his pleasure in pain... yet he was still playing, like an overgrown, never matured kid... Well, maybe all this washing stuff was not that innocent after all, kids did not shave off their non-existent body hair, and in spite of his lithe boy-basket and youthful shape, Schuldig surely was no twinkie.

Then again, perhaps he had always been… Schuldig.  
Uncomfortably, Yohji drew up his shoulders and made to turn away from this strange show of spoiled purity, when a knock on the door startled him.

He caught a glimpse of the redhead stepping hastily out of the shower, but he did not wait – long fingers curling around a harigane in his pocket, he went to yank open the door. He stepped aside immediately, letting the wire uncoil with a soft hiss as he waited for whoever was standing in he hallway.

He heard the taletelling ratchet of a handgun's catch being pulled back, before Crawford slid into the room – too fast for Yohji to catch him out, he spun with his back against the wall by the window and trained the gun at the blond. "Drop your wire," Crawford ordered coolly, cold brown eyes behind rimless glasses fixing one of those flat, fish-like stares on him. "And now be a good boy and sit down over there, on the bed. Sit on your hands and lean back against the wall. Don't move or I will shoot you."

Okay, Yohji mused wryly, apparently Crawford was not in the mood of shooting him outright, then... not that it mattered anyway, after what Aya had flung at him last night.

He did as he was told. Crawford was turned out immaculately as always. He appeared untouched by the heat in his ivory white, smartly cut dust coat, pressed white shirt, grey, neatly belted slacks and expensive black shoes, and his hands encased in soft black leather gloves. He had combed his dark hair back, with a couple of rebellious strands straggling over his brow; his elegant glasses gleamed harshly to suit his strongboned, determined face, all hard angles and thin lips, eyes dark and unforgiving like those of a crow.

"Where is the attraction?" Crawford asked, as dry as an accountant.

Yohji shrugged. "How would I know?"

He had no business with Crawford, and he had no wish to start messing with the man outside missions. Crawford made him freeze. Not only was he the eldest out of their bunch, he also had the advantage of a few more years of experience in their line of work, combined with an uncanny knack for long-term strategy, and a ruthless will to succeed. Combined with an apparently perfect lack of qualms, this made for a rather formidable adversary. Callous, Aya had spat, malicious, base… a boxer turned murderer…

Crawford raked over him with a cool glance, his face utterly void of any expression, the gun steady in his gloved hand. It occurred to Yohji that without the weapon, he would have looked like some lawyer, or a high-flying business executive of the conservative style. "Why don't you shoot?" he said, stretching his legs out.

Crawford's mouth twitched a little. "It would mess up his apartment."

Yohji stared at him, Crawford stared back, and Yohji could have sworn he saw an amused glint in those dark eyes. He was not sure, but he thought he could understand Aya's desperate hatred. Omi had never asked them to finish Schwarz off for good, to Aya's bitter disappointment. Resentment forever simmering, along with unspoken accusations, burning in those purple glares – to Aya, Weiss were a tool to achieve his aim. Now he was caught, with Weiss failing him and Kritiker binding him…

Yohji shifted and let his gaze slide away, past Crawford. That's why Aya was out and the rest of them in, and he did not know how to mend this. Omi, Ken and he had become closer than mere team mates – in a cautious, deliberately superficial way. Pragmatic, prudent, making the best of what they had.

The tap in the bathroom came on, water rushing into the sink. They could hear Schuldig splashing about, occasionally bumping into the perspex panes of the shower enclosure. Crawford crossed his arms, the gun still pointing at Yohji. He looked bored and alert at the same time. Through the open window came the growl and rush of an approaching bus; it grumbled to a halt not far away; they heard voices and the patter of feet on the damp tarmac; the ringing of a bicycle bell and the chatter of people. If Omi was not working a shift at the shop, he would catch the bus to school and back. Or Ken would offer him a ride on the motorbike and drop him off.

Omi usually had good reasons for what he did, and whatever Aya's grievances, Yohji was not about to spoil whatever plans the chibi might pursue. A matter of trust…

Omi pitched against someone like Crawford. Yohji drew up his shoulders against the chill that suddenly poured into him.

Schuldig shoved the bathroom door open. A towel slung low around his hips, he leaned against the doorframe while raking his fingers through his hair to untangle it. "Hey, Brad," he said, his odd half-smirk back in place, gaze gleaming defiantly. "That was quick."

Crawford's face remained unreadable. "You know me." His tone was almost casual, yet Yohji winced at the tension that coiled between the two men. "So you have your own place. You acquired a wife, too. Now all you need is a new job."

Yohji wisely refrained from protesting his gender. Schuldig tossed back his hair and folded his arms, a challenge glittering in his eyes. "Try me."

"I am." Crawford cast a demonstrative glance at his watch, the gun unwavering in his hand. "You have forty-eight hours. Put it right." He stalked out without bothering to look back, and slammed the door behind him.

Schuldig sagged a little and pulled his lower lip between his teeth. "Shit."

Yohji pulled his hands from underneath his bum, fumbled for his cigarettes and quirked a grin. "And we didn't even screw."

Schuldig turned an ice-chill glare at him. "Not funny, Balinese. Not funny at all."

Yohji lit up and puffed a mouthful of smoke in Schuldig's direction. "No? He always struck me as the cool type." He shook his head. "Sorta guppy? And now to lose it like this..." He clicked his tongue. "Bad form."

"Shut it."

"He's jealous. He's gonna get all possessive and scour your pretty hide for this."

Schuldig swallowed hard. "Pretty?" he repeated, sounding brittle.

Yohji chewed on the filter. Perhaps he had not meant to say just that, but now that the words were out, he felt reluctant to weaken them. "He's a pervert," he said flatly, "if he's been banging you all those years."

"You know fuck," Schuldig cut in, sharp and thready, but Yohji shrugged.

"That I do quite well actually. Why d'he not murder me?"

"Guess it won't fit in somehow," came the unwilling reply. "Gimme a fag."

Yohji tossed him packet and lighter. "Did you know that?"

Schuldig snatched it and raised his eyebrows as he lit a cigarette. He shook his head. "Before I dragged your sorry ass here? No."

Yohji dropped his head back against the wall and laughed silently around his smoke. "Sure madness isn't contagious?"

Playing with the lighter – snap, snuff flame, snap, snuff, clickety-clack, thin, bony fingers fiddling nervously – Schuldig glowered. "And how would you be able to judge madness, Balinese, seeing that you live in the thick of it all the friggin' time?"

"You said I'm sane."

"And you believe what a nutcase like me tells you? Man, you're crazier than me." Schuldig chucked the packet back; Yohji ducked his head to avoid getting hit and caught it nimbly between long, hard hands.

"Yeah, maybe. 'Cos I think you're not all that bonkers as you wanna make me believe. I got good at spotting the signs, yanno." Yohji got up and rummaged through his pockets for his wallet. "I'm hungry. Whatcha want?"

"Condoms," Schuldig said, and Yohji rolled his eyes.

**xxx**

"You stink, Bali. Go shower. I'm not gonna do anything," Schuldig said grumpily.

So Yohji took his chances. When he emerged a little later, primly wrapped in a towel, with damp hair and smelling of Schuldig's soap, Schuldig sized him up with a lingering gaze, before turning away. "You can have some of my rags for now."

Yohji watched him rummage in a box under the shelf, where he found a sloppy grey jumper that almost fitted Yohji, straining only a little over his smoothly muscled form, and a pair of washed-out blue denims he could wear provided he left the waistband unbuttoned and the zip half-open. A pair of pristine white cotton briefs and a matching vest, plus scratchy grey woolly socks completed the borrowed outfit. The lot smelled pungent and clean of cheap detergent. Turning his back as he dressed, Yohji felt oddly self-conscious, while Schuldig looked on quietly.

Yohji stuffed his used, stale clothes into a plastic bag Schuldig gave him. "I'm bloody starving."

Schuldig threw him a packet of chewing gum. "Is all I got for now. Are you all this demanding? Stop wailing."

"I'm going shopping. No one can live like that," Yohji grouched. "You'd be fatter if he'd feed you better."

Schuldig shot him a glare but did not argue. Still almost naked, he crouched on the bed and got busy unknotting his hair.

**xxx**

Schuldig had managed to slip on a pair of clean, ratty blue denims – stretch that clung to his skinny legs like a second skin, slashed and frayed in strategic places, Yohji noticed as he plonked two large brown paper bags with groceries onto the floor by the shelf. Otherwise, the redhead appeared rather spaced out, standing by the window and rocking back and forth on his bare feet, his arms wrapped about his narrow chest. He was, of course, smoking. Pot, Yohji thought, pulling a face.

"Hey, it's too early for that trash." He bent around the corner of the bathroom to refill the kettle, and then set to rummaging through the bags. "Breadrolls, some cheese – man, that was a bitch to find in that grubby shop down the road – and I do sincerely hope you like smoked tofu 'cos I didn't know what else you'd eat. I got no clue 'bout European food."

"Anything," came the vague reply. "We're not choosy."

"We?" Yohji tipped out one bag and began to pick through the spilled contents.

"Schwarz. We."

"What about you? Like, you alone?"

"There is no such thing."

"Bull." Yohji found what he was after, and stepped up to Schuldig, peering over one smooth, bony shoulder to see what the redhead was looking at. "Shit," he murmured when hespotted Farfarello loiter about by the bus stop on the opposite side of the road. "He been trailing me?"

Without warning, Schuldig sagged back against him and laughed. "What, you didn't see him? Did you really think Brad would just walk outta here?" He reached behind and clasped Yohji's wrists, dragged them forward and turned in this semi-forced embrace to mould up against Yohji. They were looking right into each other's eyes, shimmering green sinking into cold, simmering blue.

Yohji's breath hitched. Schuldig felt good, way too good, his naked skin warm and damn touchable, his crotch pressing rather firmly against Yohji's thigh, his almost dry hair wisping about his white neck and shoulders like lashings of fire. "What are you after, Schwarz?" Yohji said, in spite of himself slightly winded.

Schuldig let go of one of Yohji's wrists, pried open his curled-up fingers and found what he had hidden in his fist. With an amused snort, Schuldig held up the packet of lube and condom up between them. "And you?"

He smelled sharp of man, clean of cheap soap – he always emanated cleanliness, Yohji mused, feeling too buzzed for his own comfort, and how odd – were Schwarz not supposed to be somehow filthy? Drenched in the stench of blood and sin... just like him, the word emblazoned on his shoulder. Schuldig also reeked heavily of pot and coffee, and a bit of fennel. Toothpaste, Yohji guessed.

He should have shoved away the lanky body that lay against him. He would be stronger than Schuldig, he guessed, for he was broader in build and carried slightly more muscle on his long frame. Yet he remained still in Schuldig's grip, while his mind wandered off to lazily contemplate the fact that the redhead looked really very young now... take or give, like a lad in his late teens, in spite of the fact that they were of about the same age.

"I know what you want, Bali," Schuldig said, his breath smoke flavoured, with a trace of sweetness from the fennel toothpaste. "You want to kiss me now."

Yohji closed his eyes. Well, Schuldig was so right, and he was so damn screwed now, allowing Mastermind of all people to plunge right into him without even attempting to resist, let alone fight him off. What a fairy tale. And all that just because Aya had thrown another queeny tantrum?

He shook his head, and Schuldig let go of him instantly. "Yes, you do," he said, cool and flat, a tone that rivalled Crawford's. "But this isn't the way I'd like it."

"Kiss my ass," Yohji snapped and tore away to get some food from the bag. The kettle hissed and clicked off, and he made coffee while Schuldig sat down on the bed to finish his smoke and watch him.

"I would."

Yohji nearly dropped the jar with coffee granules and dived to catch it. All that talk was fraying his nerves, and he felt his groin getting hard by now. Schuldig did turn him on. Dear Lord.

"I would rim your sweet ass, and then you could screw mine," Schuldig said deadpan, without moving from where he stood. Yohji felt the fine hairs on his skin rise and something else, too, to hell with it. Stunned and angry, he pressed a hand over his rebellious crotch, gritted his teeth and began to sort out the shopping. He could feel Schuldig eyeing him – as though he were naked already. "No," he growled, "you had your chance last night."

"You were wasted."

"And what?"

"I don't want you like that."

Yohji stilled, curled into a tight crouch, clutching the jar to his stomach.

"Hey, you swallowed your tongue now, or what?" Schuldig huffed. "Man, Bali, you really are a bit daft that way, huh? Alright, forget it."

Yohji carefully unfurled one arm and stretched it out. "Got one of those joints for me?"

A whiff of freshness and warmth, and then he felt Schuldig lean against him, bright copper hair brushing against his cheek and the quick lapping of a hot tongue at the palm of his hand. "I'll roll you one."

"Yuck." Yohji shuddered and withdrew his hand in a flash, but not entirely with disgust as he irritably admitted to himself.

Schuldig laughed as he sat down spreadlegged next to Yohji to roll the cigarette. "I know what you're thinking right now."

"No you don't." Yohji tried to concentrate on sorting the contents of the shopping bags, but his mind was running rings round the odd ultimatum Crawford had set Schuldig, and where to find a place to stay. Away from this mess. At least for a little while. And perhaps not too far either... Schuldig was close and warm, his bluntness almost… refreshing. Yohji shook a few strands of hair out of his face and bent to his task, keenly feeling his skin slide against Schuldig's as he was moving about. Unwilling to lose the contact.

"Yes I do. Your pretty blond head is buzzing right now." Schuldig was quick, fingers nimble; before long he licked along the edge of the cigarette paper and sealed the joint; then he lit it. "Here, full service." He leaned over, Yohji turned to take the thing, and met parted lips and firm hands that cupped his cheeks and drew him into a surprisingly soft kiss. "Doubt, conscience, worry, all that useless trash you idiots lug around with you." Schuldig's laugh was as velvety as his lips, his voice guttural and low now, rummaging around in Yohji's guts, sending streams of throbbing warmth to places where he did not want them. Or perhaps he did after all... He let his clamouring mind trail off on vacation when Schuldig buried his fingers in Yohji's hair and kissed him again, a tad firmer this time, slipping a bit of tongue into the bargain and a thin, long thigh between Yohji's knees.

Yohji closed his eyes. Should draw back, he thought even as he brought up his arms and around the redhead's shoulders, but damn, Schuldig felt good, almost like Aya...

Schuldig blew a breathful of pot-smoke into Yohji's nose and mouth, and Yohji coughed a bit before accepting and sucking it in. Schuldig sat back on his haunches and gave him a semi-smile, watchful in spite of what he was using to drug up. "I could bonk you now, and you'd do it."

Yohji propped his arms on the ground behind him to regain his balance. "I'm not some flimsy pushover."

"I know that. That's the fun bit, Bali." Schuldig got up, grabbed a breadroll and began to eat while making coffee and juggling his joint.

Yohji could see that Schuldig was hard, his groin pressing firmly against the confines of his jeans. "You want me to want it, unfogged and cheerful?" He shook his head with a small, rather incredulous laugh. "What makes you believe that it will ever come to that?"

"You mean," Schuldig said over his shoulder and shoved his hair out of his face, "you won't sink this low?"

Yohji heaved himself up and put the groceries onto the clothes box for lack of another suitable space, for it would not do to have them spoil the strange order of the place. He pondered the question in earnest. It would have been easy to say yes for the sake of a cheap, spiteful pun at Schuldig's expense, but he did not feel like shooting barbs right now. If this was one of the redhead's mindgames, it was a rather good one, for it felt... brutal, manipulative... and honest, in a way so warped he did not even want to begin to understand.

"Coffee's ready." Schuldig turned and held the mug out to him, blue eyes cool, unexpectant.

Yohji took the mug. "Do you always make such a mess?" He nodded at the renewed spillage of coffee granules and water on the shelf.

Schuldig shrugged. "I'll clear up later, when my head's not killing me."

"Headaches? Is that why you do pot?"

"You're an ass," Schuldig rasped rather incongruously. "Know what I think? Brad's contacted your lot. They want you back; he's pissed off that you're mucking up his plans-"

"You dragged me here!"

"-and they got a deal. We're all one big family, quarrels purely professional, otherwise entertaining ourselves – whoever we are – with fucking, bitching and more of the same."

A small pause, then Yohji sat down beside Schuldig again. "Coffee's getting cold."

Schuldig stared at him blankly. "It's not working, is it?"

"Nope."

"Sucks."

They stood in awkward silence for a few heartbeats, drinking their coffee. When Yohji was done, he squashed out the joint and went to wash out the mug. He set the mug back on the shelf, wiped it down and turned to look at the redhead. "You're messing with my head," he said, unsure how else to say what he felt. Yohji, not usually lost for words, was groping for a way to talk... to Schuldig. Mastermind. The mindfucker. The enemy. And found himself puzzled by this fact.

"It doesn't work like that. You just think I got some sorta ulterior motive," Schuldig answered calmly, turning his mug in his hands. "And you'd not believe me anyway if I said not this time. I just have no idea how to... I mean, whatcha do if you like someone? How does it feel? Like this? I don't like it; it sorta hurts in odd places. Inside me. I watch people and think they're behaving like idiots when they fall for someone. I'm no bloody idiot. I'm no fucktoy either. Brad doesn't do fucktoys. I know where I am with him, but not with you."

Yohji suspected that this was as close as Schuldig would ever get to saying he liked someone. And he sounded damn near to confused, almost caught, if still struggling. Schuldig tended to behave erratically at the best of times, and Yohji grew queasy and determined at the same time to make it out of this place alive. Surely Aya would have calmed down by now, they would patch up, make out and screw, and things would be okay again. Well, maybe not quite like that, he conceded, silently watching Schuldig drink his coffee. Even so, Aya was a – reluctant – sucker for touch and sensation, and Yohji's skills had soothed and smoothed over many an argument... Don't get cocky though, he grouched, silently admonishing himself, can't trifle with redheads now, can we? And it won't do to overrate one's own skills when facing... well, Aya's rage could be formidable, but at least it was predictable.

"Ah, whatever." Schuldig let himself sink back, half-sprawled over his narrow bed, head propped against the wall, the mug supported on his chest as he gleamed up at Yohji. "You got a fixation with that ice queen of yours. At least Brad's with me when we screw."

"And you? Are you with him? Does he allow you in? Or did you ever wanna kick him out of your bed?"

Schuldig nearly spluttered the coffee over his milky skin as he sat up and glared. "You nuts?"

"You scared?" Yohji paused to get a hold over his rambling thoughts and shaky resolve. He stared at Schuldig's lips, thin, pink and moist from coffee. He felt the uncomfortable need to adjust himself in those too-skimpy jeans that he could not button up because they were bought to fit snugly over Schuldig's narrower hips.

"Scared of what? After..." Schuldig trailed off, swallowed hard on what he had nearly let slip. After Rosenkreuz, he was not afraid of anything Brad Crawford could do, except for leaving him. There had been threats, sure, every time his antics had become to much for the older man to bear. There had also been other things that Crawford could give him. Why're you hanging on to me? Schuldig had once snarled at him, back HOME when he was still trying to fight anyone and anything trying to hold him down. And Crawford had laughed at him, brown eyes sparkling with true, dangerous amusement – enough to bowl Schuldig over. Brad Crawford was a river in winter, all iced over, reliable enough to walk on, yet beneath the ice moved those strong, cold currents, swift, powerful, and utterly without compassion... Crawford told him what his masters had withheld: _so bright, and yet so stupid – you are the closest thing to the perfect empath as they will ever see in this place, you're a genius boy, and you're losing it... we cannot afford wasting such a resource... I'll make my name with you because I will teach you to obey._

"After what?" Yohji asked, his gaze curious.

Schuldig shook his head. Crawford had just turned twenty at around that time, and he already had a name that reverberated through the frosty corridors of power at Rosenkreuz.

Schuldig wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Kisses, blows, pain for pleasure, pleasure nothing without pain, oh yes, he liked it, he needed, he wanted, he hungered for Crawford's direction that contained his flustered mind and satisfied his the cravings of his body.Famished for touches, any touches, even if they were hurtful in some way – touches to his body, to his mind, to the hollow space inside him Far called his soul – he drank Crawford in with the searing vehemence of youth starved for guidance. His burning greed for life had remained unstifled beyond the layers of blackness, and Crawford's merciless brand of affection rekindled him in a flash.

"Hey," Yohji said, reaching out to touch his wrist. A hesitant, cool touch.

Schuldig let him. Crawford never hesitated. Not only was he unafraid of Schuldig's fire; he fanned it and gave it focus. And Schuldig, in his haze of anger and pain, had come to realise that Crawford had tamed him.

He accepted. Because Crawford had no pity. Crawford understood.

But he also knew when to let off. When to soothe and calm. For the first time since he could remember, Schuldig tasted stillness – when Crawford knocked him out in response to an attempt at insubordination.

_I own you now._

Schuldig was surprised. Thrilled. Breathless when he caught a flash of something else in those dark eyes before he blacked out…

Yohji studied him. How pointless…

Crawford had studied them – Nagi, Farfarello, and Schuldig – and he knew when to cover the weeping sores on their minds and when to rip them open. They had been conditioned thoroughly, beyond redemption perhaps, and Yohji was still not prepared to help him find out. He refused, squirmed, in spite of very definitely wanting... Schuldig sensed with the keenness of his splintered mind the precarious balance in which Crawford held Schwarz. Yohji could not know. Yohji was no match for this.

Yohji's touch lingered, his fingertips pressing lightly against Schuldig's pulse. A nice touch, almost gentle.

But Yohji was just a toy. Smart, attractive, tough, not quite honest. Wily, too, and appetisingly dangerous if he wanted to be. Surely boring after a while, like every toy, and if he could not even handle this, he would break sooner or later.

Schuldig began to find boring an attractive option.

He watched ash drop into his coffee and swirled it around. "Ah, balls," he murmured, drawing up one knee and hooking his arm around it. An almost protective posture, screaming scornful rejection at Yohji. "Get going, Bali; you Weiss guys are all the same shit. Get outta here, back to your ice prick. I need my beauty sleep now."

He jolted as he found himself enveloped by a gust of warmth and spice, a pair of long hands digging into his hair and pulling his head back. He kept his eyes open and met shifting green, boring into him with an expression that was an odd mixture of composure and heat, and then Yohji kissed him.

A hard, firm kiss, almost on the wild side, almost biting, teeth clicking together and a tongue stabbing into his mouth, but not as bruising as Crawford's kisses. With a harsh gasp, Yohji let off, got up and wiped his mouth even as he turned and walked out, pulling the door of the apartment shut behind him.

Schuldig jumped up to give the door an angry kick, and then decided to drink some more coffee before telling Far to come in or piss off and report to Crawford.

He stretched out his hand for the kettle.  
And froze.

The spare key he had offered Yohji was missing.

**xxx**

Yohji wandered the sun-rainy streets as if in a daze. He had been careful to stay out of Farfarello's way, giving him a wide berth and hopping onto a bus that happened to pull up at the bus stop just in time. He had his wallet and a half-empty, crumpled packet of cigarettes, but had forgotten his lighter at Schuldig's place.

It did not matter; he did not even crave a smoke while he was busy thinking, hard enough to make his head hurt. Perhaps that was what Schuldig kept going on about: thinking could hurt.

Right then, he was thinking about Aya... and Schuldig, which did not help the hurting, and finally he gave up to make sense of it all. There was a basic explanation, and it lay with his dick. Any other reasons – less basic, more intelligent – were also more frightening and therefore untrue, Yohji told himself with stubborn insistence, because no way had he a thing for redhaired nutcases, blokes to boot. And he absolutely could not stand sibilant accents and long, freckled noses, especially not when they kept snooping around in business that was his concern alone, thank you very much. He disliked kives beyond those needed for chopping vegetables, and he felt drawn to girls and gentle, loving sex. Beyond that, he had a reputation to uphold as Kudoh Yohji, the suave, savvy ladies man. Right. And as a professional in a deadly business.

Who now had not only one, but a couple of rather dirty secrets.  
Who both happened to own impossible hair in glaring shades of red.  
Which did not make any sense at all. Try again, Kudoh...

In the end, he found he been wandering around in circles, drawing closer to the flowershop. The jeans were chafing him between his legs, and he could feel his stomach clench and rumble around nothing but smoke. He was sticky with sweat, tired, and fed up, and in this kiss-my-ass mood he could not care less anymore what would happen if he ran into Aya now.

Who apparently had been watching the street like a hawk from behind the shop window, where he had spent all of two full shifts misting the plants on display. They were drenched and dripping ugly puddles onto the floor. Omi looked up from behind the till when Yohji wandered into the shop through the front door, bell chiming to announce his arrival. "Oh, Yohji-kuuun!" the chibi chirped, slamming the register shut. As if on cue, Ken stomped in from the back room.

"About time," he said gruffly, and then to Omi, "c'mon already, or the game's over by the time we get there."

Without further ado, they cast off their aprons, dumped their tools, yelled a fleeting "see ya" at the two elder ones, and a moment later, Ken's bike revved up, the noise fading into the traffic down the street.

Yohji craned his neck to look on as they dashed off. "No helmets," he groused, "they'll get booked, and then who's gonna foot the friggin' bill..."

"You always pay their tickets," Aya said stiffly. Naturally, he did not approve.

Yohjipretended to stare down the street for a little longer, before he gave up and turned to face Aya. For a moment, they just gazed at one another in silence. Then Aya walked to the door to flip the small cardboard sign that dangled from a thread to 'Closed'.

"It's a quiet day," he remarked by way of an explanation, his back to Yohji while he untied the knot at the back of his apron with practised ease. He wore tight black jeans and his orange jumper that clashed so daringly with his haircolour. Fiery, enticing. Aya.

Yohji hooked his thumbs into the waistband of the borrowed denims. "You... I mean, would you like some tea?"

"It is too hot for tea, Yohji." Aya logic. Ever so reasonable. Aya began to fold the apron – pointless, Yohji thought, for he would hang it on the peg by the backdoor anyway…

He felt irked, in spite of himself. "Okay then, iced tea?"

Aya turned to meet his eyes again. "Some iced water would be nice."

Yohji marched off into the kitchen. He sank into a crouch before the fridge-freezer and began to rummage for the ice cubes when he heard Aya's soft footfall behind him.

"There's coffee ready. In the flask on the stove."

"What are we doing, Ayan? Pretending nothing happened?" Yohji found the tray with ice cubes and pried it loose from the thick, snowy wadding of frost that clogged much of the freezer. He kicked the door shut as he unfolded his lanky frame to his full height and reached for the cold tap to let the water run off before filling a glass for Aya. He knocked a few ice cubes out and dropped them into the glass, keeping one in his palm. It nicely chilled his pulse.

Aya took the misted glass and drank a few dainty sips. Yohji watched him. Aya was hiding behind his red fringe. Yohji lifted the hand with the ice cube– reckless, Kudoh, might get burnt now – and brushed a few of the fiery bangs aside.

Aya had his eyes screwed shut and the glass pressed against his cheek. Drops of ice water welled between Yohji's fingers and trickled down Aya's jaw. Aya bit his lips, but could not quite suppress a tiny sound deep in his throat. Almost a sob… Yohji swallowed hard, his heart melting into a puddle of misery and compassion, and yes, want and longing, splinters of anger and flashes of fear and shame and more of the same...

Aya was so pale he seemed almost transparent, had not his hair cast a crimson luminescence over his ghostly features. "You judge easily," he said tonelessly. "And you are quick to draw your conclusions. But they are not always right, Yohji. Your whor... you going out and sleeping with whoever hits on you that night... I've tried to live with that. I learned to handle it somehow." His hand squeezed the glass, nails and knuckles waxy white. "Not this. Not you with HIM. Those people had their hands in blood up to their armpits that night my family was murdered. They helped wiping out the life of my parents and sister. And you... you went with HIM."

Yohji leaned back until he felt the reassuring support of the kitchen counter against his bottom. "I... it's not what it seems, Aya."

Aya's other hand drifted to the edge and grasped it firmly. "I am not talking about sex," he went on in the same empty voice. "Not only. You are close, you and HIM. I can see that. And I know that you think Schwarz were just doing their job, and that my father had business dealings with Takatori for many years. It is true, but you are still wrong. When he found out what Takatori was truly trying to do, my father meant to finish with him. He severed their business ties and planned to expose Takatori and his clan. So Schwarz were sent in by Eszet to make sure Takatori fulfilled his end of the bargain, and ensured their experiments would continue. My father was an obstacle; they cleared the way."

Aya paused, slowly lowered his hand with the glass and set it onto the counter, before opening his eyes but kept his glance down, shaded by long dark lashes. "I have only one goal left in my life. I cannot afford getting distracted. I asked you to leave me alone; you would not listen. You never listen to me, Yohji. You want three words from me? I heard three words that night I went to them."

Yohji wanted to pull him close, and did not dare. So he just kept his fingers laced into Aya's hair, fingertips moving in a unconscious caress against his scalp, water dripping down Aya's temple, soaking strands of his hair. Pasting them against his white skin, they looked like dried blood. Yohji began to rub against them, trying to wipe away that particular darkness. "What... what did they say?" he murmured.

"'We have him.'"

Yohji felt like doused with boiling water.

"They told me they had you." Aya's voice shifted, he shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. "It should not have mattered." Aya's tone was sliding now, melting, the gridwork of pride and anger beginning to unravel as he tried to carry on. "I have my task, and there's my sister too, but I could not help it: I went and let them do whatever they wanted because I hoped I could help you at least, more than I could do for my family. And while I was there, I wanted to die because I had broken my oath to my parents."

And finally, the hidden gaze lifted to meet Yohji's eyes – Aya had lost one of his contacts, and his naked eye shimmered dusky blue. Ran's gaze, Yohji thought unhappily, Ran...

A red-rimmed, swimming gaze. No tears. Aya could not cry. His lips twisted in a bitter smile. "A samurai who breaks his oath is worth less than vermin. I should have committed seppuku, but I could not do it. I have my sister to take care of and no right to condemn her while there is a chance that she might recover. Therefore I have to live with my shame. Perhaps my fate forbids me release until I have fulfilled my task. I hoped you would stay away, out of this mess; at least it would all have made sense, all that pain would have had a meaning, and I could have gone back to normal, without having to deal with this... all of this..."

Wrong, Yohji thought edgily, all wrong... just how? How to shake Aya out of it? The dead were dead after all. Perhaps there was a sense in seeking justice, but Aya was dying of his own revenge. Yohji's grip in Aya's hair tightened for a moment, before he let go and slid his hand, wet and cold, to Aya's shoulder. A bony, slim shoulder, he knew this feeling... and angrily shook off the sliver of a memory that strove to worm its way into his mind. "Normal, Ayan? And all of what... you mean, longing for someone? For something other than revenge?"

"What right do you have to talk to me like this?" Aya asked, surprisingly softly.

Kneading Aya's shoulder, Yohji felt lost for words. Aya swallowed hard. "You told me about trust. Can you explain to me why I should still trust you? And where is your trust in me, Yohji? You choose what happened to you last night. It was a matter of time alone."

"That's what they tell rape victims," Yohji bit out, letting his hand wander lower, caressing Aya's jumper-clad arm with his knuckles.

"Ordinary people, perhaps," Aya said quietly. "But you are a trained professional who is supposed to protect people from just such things. Our clients expect us to be aware and alert and capable of conducting business on their behalf. Neatly and efficiently. We heard what happened. Getting drugged and gang-banged in a filthy club does not figure in this equation; it would shake their confidence in our abilities."

Yohji bit his lip. Aya felt good beneath the orange wool of his sweater. Orange... copper... bright, blue eyes, an oddly alluring half-smile... Yohji shook his head in frustration. "So if a working girl gets done, it's okay 'cos she'd have known it could happen?"

"You know this is not the same."

Yohji raked his free hand through his blond bangs and then let it land on Aya's other arm. "You... how did you get Omi to allow a solo mission like that? You going after Schwarz?"

Aya leaned towards him. Slightly, almost unnoticeably, and Yohji wondered whether he even realised. "He did not. There never was a mission."

Yohji took a gamble and tugged at Aya's arms. "But... the files..."

Aya's body yielded and made contact with Yohji from knee to chest. Aya's lips touched Yohji's ear, his breath stirring mussed blond strands as he spoke. "We made a deal. He wanted you back. I wanted them down. So he covered my unauthorised absence. He is good at this sort of manoeuvre, don't you think?" Another stillness, then Aya pushed back and twisted from Yohji's hold. "I cannot afford to be open... vulnerable to such things. I can't. You can't. This whole affair was a lesson we should learn, or perish."

"Aya..." Yohji blurted, unable to conceal the click of panic in his voice.

Aya stepped backwards, towards the door, his face a ghostly mask beneath flaming crimson, and groped blindly for the handle. "I am sorry, Yohji. I was weak. I hurt you and myself. It will end here."

**xxx**

Is this how a blow to the heart feels, Yohji thought as he numbly watched the door swing shut behind Aya. Aya made perfect sense. Aya was right. And yet, and yet... something was wrong, nagging him and eluding him every time he tried to nail it down. The wisp of a dream, the stirring of instinct. He buried his head in his hands and began to rock on his feet.

He stilled when he heard the door to Aya's room close. But when he heard the outside door creak in its hinges, instinct overruled reason, and he ran.

Dashing out into the hallway, he reached Aya before the door closed behind his trim, compact form, and yanked him into an embrace, then a kiss. "Senseless," he gasped, "I'm gonna kiss you blue and then I'm gonna screw you into next fucking week, man Aya, you're such an ass, and I bloody coulda had it fuckin' easier, oh shit, oh shit, oh hell..."

Aya let him. Yohji felt his heart pound wildly in his chest, for he was ready to fight Aya down if he had to.

Aya did not fight. Aya clung to him, arms and legs and every fibre of his being wrapped around Yohji.

"Ayan?"

Yohji tried to lift Aya's chin, but Aya pressed his face against Yohji's neck.

"Ayan..." Yohji choked out, "man, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. But this... I won't allow you to run like that. So I'm a dork, I've been dumb... but if there's one truth it's that I love you. I love you, idiot or not. There's not much of it for the likes of us..."

"So we can't be choosy? So you put up with me?" Aya said in a strangled voice.

Yohji dragged him towards the stairs, groping down to his backside as they stumbled and fumbled their way up. "So I've learned to appreciate it when it's around. It's a damn precious thing, Ayan. I love you."

"You screw him," Aya snapped against Yohji's long neck that was in need of a shave. "You're wearing his rags. You stink of him."

Yohji reached for the first available door. Omi's room. Whatever. "Yes. And no. At least not yet... I'll have a shower… ah, shit, Ayan... it's nothing like this. Only sometimes... you don't make it easy, yanno." He yanked at the door knob and kicked the door open.

Aya tore at fistfuls of blond. "Am I supposed to be easy?"

Yohji pushed Aya with his back against the closing door and dipped his face into crimson hair with an exasperated grunt. "No. Shit, for someone who doesn't talk much, you got a way of twisting my words..." Better to let his hands take over the talking, down Aya's flanks, right into his pants, making him gasp and moan, eyes sliding half-shut, lips parting, his tongue darting out to flick over the pink flesh. "I mean," Yohji panted, stealing a quick kiss, "it would be nice if sometimes, you were a little more approachable. Without me having to be afraid of being shredded to ribbons with that damn knife of yours. Just enjoying a good screw with you, is all." He slipped one hand between them to fumble open the waistband of Aya's jeans and drag down the metal zip.

Aya suddenly stilled, breathless but quiet, and turned his head to one side – hiding yet again, but Yohji noted the restless shift of muscles, the slight relaxing of tension, the closer moulding of hard limbs against his body. Anger and resentment melting away, along with Aya's precious control, to be replaced by dreams, if only for a few blissful moments.

They had to make do with what they could get.

"That's it, Ayan," Yohji murmured hoarsely, kissing the pulse at Aya's exposed neck, "that's all. You're all I want, everything I imagine..." Parting muscular thighs by nudging them apart with his knee, beginning to tug down those trousers and undies...

"Except for her." A rough whisper, free of anger, filled with sadness and reluctance.

"Yes, except for her," Yohji admitted frankly, never pausing, hands caressing, warming, sliding up under Aya's sweater and tee, "but then, that's different too. No reason to be jealous of ghosts, is there?" Aya winced at the unexpected stab of pain in Yohji's voice. Yohji began to rub soothing circles on his side with one hand even while the other one cupped Aya's jutting hip-bone and pressed him flat against the door. "See? There isn't. She's gone, you're here now, with me. You're warm, sexy, beautiful. I like looking at you. I love to touch you, and I like sleeping with you. There's no distraction 'cos we're in the same boat, right?"

"I threw you out." A gasp, through gritted teeth, Aya clinging to a shred of his dignity, and Yohji did not give a damn right then, he wanted Aya ripped apart, broken out of his icy shell, yelling and sobbing his passion in love instead of hatred.

He slid long fingers around Aya's hip to his backside and squeezed. Hard. "And I crept back. It's alright, I think I deserved it. Hey." Yohji ducked his head so he could suck along Aya's jawbone and jab his tongue into clenched muscles until Aya could not help but exhale a low groan, and went limp.

Yohji seized this moment of weakness and spun Aya around and onto the neatly made bed. Aya fell back and Yohji dropped onto him, knocking the breath out of Aya with a loud grunt. He grabbed Aya's wrists and pinned them over his head before Aya could collect his frazzled wits and hit him. The bed smelled clean and of the younger men, and when they came back they would have new sheets on their mattress... glancing down, Yohji sought Aya's gaze and smiled breathlessly as one purple contact and one dusky eye gleamed up at him hungrily from beneath dark lashes.

"Love you," Yohji yapped, emphasizing his point with a firm grinding of his groin against Aya's.

And Aya's lips twitched in something faintly resembling a smile, before he let his head fall back with a moan of utter abandon. "Yoh...ji..."

"Yeah, here," Yohji panted, dragging off the rest of Aya's clothes, then his own, never letting go entirely of Aya's wrists, "always here, you stubborn fool. Now, where were we..."

**xxx**

"They have their own rooms," Ken grouched as he climbed the stairs after Omi, "they don't have to screw on our beds." He shuddered, eyeing Omi's behind that looked round and tempting in a pair of dark blue shorts. "Argh. Just imagine that."

Omi pushed out his lower lip and gave him a glance over the shoulder. "Imagine? We can have it in stereo if we go into Yohji's den."

"It's filthy," Ken objected, pulling off fingerless leather gloves, "it's messy, too, you never know what's gonna jump at you there."

Omi simply walked into the shuttered room. Ken followed, steps crunching on paper and fast food boxes, yet whatever he had meant to say was swallowed by a wet, slow kiss as Omi caught him in an embrace, and then they heard someone groan in what could have been deep pain...

Ken dropped the gloves to grab Omi by the waist like a drowning man would grasp a log, and whispered fiercely, "Is his damn bed usable?"

Omi bit his ear. "Let's find out."

**xxx**

"One of those days," Aya said, rubbing his behind, "I am going to kill you."

Yohji blinked up at Aya whose face hovered above his. "Hm? Oh... yeah, baby..."

"The bed is a mess."

Yohji dragged a pillow over his face. Aya pried the pillow away and clutched it in both hands. "I could smother you now."

"Then no one's gonna screw you 'cos you scare them all away," Yohji mumbled, trying to turn onto his side. Aya blocked him by moulding his short, wiry body against Yohji's long, amber one.

"Yohji?"

"Hm?" Sleepy green eyes, drooping, a sated, tired smile.

"Why did you come back? Aren't you scared too?"

Sleepy or not, Yohji lunged and wrapped his arms around Aya's shoulders, pulling him down so that the pillow fell on Yohji's chest and Aya's cheek was bedded onto the pillow. "Will you stop asking stupid questions now? Get some sleep, Ayan."

Oddly peaceful, Aya dragged the comforter over both of them. "We have a mission pending."

"Then I'll cover your pretty, freshly done butt as always."

Aya shifted uneasily.

"What now?" Yohji muttered.

"What if HE..."

"If you don't stop, I'll screw you again, and then you can limp on this damn mission." And he would have to return Schuldig's clothes or the firehead would use them as an excuse to waylay him... He vehemently swatted the thought down.

Aya tensed, Yohji's arm clasped him tighter. Aya relented and sagged into him; Yohji's grip eased a little. It was always like this, Aya mused, letting go was not an option Yohji would consider; he had snagged Aya like he would ensnare someone with his wire; he would hold on even if his intent was not killing. Sometimes, Aya admitted to his sore heart, it even felt good. Too good to be true, too good to last. Alarming – he was better off with nothing to lose, and Yohji always managed to make him lose it big time, one way or another. This time, it had been the nicer version.

He listened to Yohji's breathing levelling out and melting into tiny, puffed snores. And then he finally allowed himself a small smile and a sparse kiss to Yohji's neck, to the pulse of his life.

Me too, Aya thought, letting his eyes drift shut to the rhythm of Yohji's sleep.

Me too.

**xxx**

"Stay out of this," Schuldig ordered Farfarello before he pressed the door to Crawford's study open. Farfarello sank into a crouch by the side and leaned against the wall; his keen hearing would pick up enough of the conversation to keep him tuned in.

Crawford spun round on his leather chair to face Schuldig. Who looked drained and grumpy, his smirk forced. "Exactly," Crawford said.

Schuldig walked across the spacious room and perched on Crawford's desk, to glare down at him sulkily. "Yeah? It's not the end, yanno?"

Crawford looked up at him for a moment; then he took off his glasses and set them onto the desk. He did not often allow anyone to see his eyes bare. Schuldig stared into melting dark brown and felt a familiar sinking in his guts.

"Maybe," Crawford said coolly, reaching up to lace his hand through swathes of copper silk. "Would you care to come to bed now?"

"Why ask?"

"Because I always do."

"I always say yes."

Another small pause, then, "So do I."

They went to bed in Crawford's room, and when they lay together later, sweaty and cooling from what they had just done, amid rumpled sheets and Schuldig's clothes, Schuldig said against Crawford's chest, "What's happening to me, Brad?"

Crawford stared up at the white-washed ceiling. White, plain, cells, walls, coats, laboratories, cotton swabs, needles, pain... pain... pain...

He forced himself to inhale slowly and deeply until the nauseating wave of black panic cleared and he was his cold, logical self again. They all had their ways of handling this, and they understood one another because they all knew... of those things that lurked at HOME. It had not been in his plan that Schuldig had become part of his coping routine. He had not foreseen something like this could happen, not to him, not THERE, in that place without hopes. And when he finally realised, it had been way too late, and he had decided he would have to work with it. With him. With Schuldig, in all his relentless intensity.

Forever fighting. Going down fighting, broken or not. Shoulder to shoulder, back to back, ally, fighter, tool, lover. Crawford pressed his lips together in a thin line. Scratch that last one.

"Brad?" Schuldig was getting edgy, fidgeting against Crawford's stone-hard hold around his shoulders.

Crawford tensed his arm, constricting Schuldig's ability to move some more. "Stop this. You're after a new toy, that's all. Novelty wears off. You know that." Try and tie down a wildfire. Douse it, subdue it, but contain it? For how long? He felt a shade of dread when he wondered when Schuldig would find out that he had come to like someone. All by himself, without needing.

Schuldig stilled. "Stop brooding."

Crawford closed his eyes. "Don't order me around." Another quick, hardsqueeze of his arm around narrow shoulders, then, "Sleep. Dreamless."

Schuldig stayed still, staring at the white ceiling as if to meet Crawford's gaze there. Musing that he would have to seek out Balinese to get back his clothes. Fighting sleep because he hated the nightmares it brought.

Until he felt Crawford's silence. Sinking into him, filling his limbs and mind, leaden, cold, smooth. Dreamless. The loss of dreams the price for stillness.

"Would you want to leave?" Crawford's voice floated into his clouded mind.

Schuldig closed his eyes and quirked a grin. "I'd go mad," he mumbled.

And on the brink of sleep, they shared a long, lazy chuckle.

**xxx**

The End


End file.
